


Mate

by okapi



Series: Twelve Cups of Tea [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Argentina, Cunnilingus, Discussion of Homocide, Exhibitionism, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!Stamford, Gauchos, Genderswap, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Masturbation, Outdoor Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Tea, Voyeurism, discussion of suicide, fem!Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2072541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bitter and haunted by their pasts, Sherlock and John meet as sheep-herders on the isolated Argentine <i>pampas</i>. Over shared <i>mate</i> by the evening campfire, they fall in love. Please heed tags for potential triggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> _Mate_ is an infusion of the leaves of the _yerba mate_ plant. It is typically shared by groups from a single hollowed-out gourd with a silver straw. Iconic of Argentina, but also consumed in Uruguay and border regions of neighboring countries. Much custom exists around its preparation and sharing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I am not a sheep-herder or Argentine. And I am knowingly playing very fast and loose with Argentine history. John would have to be much older than I am imagining to have served in las Malvinas (the Falklands War), but the parallel to Afghanistan was too nice to pass up.

“If you don’t mind my asking...”

“I do mind,” said Sherlock.

It was their first meaningful exchange of words in the week since they had met. The two tended the herd of sheep and established their rituals through gestures, grunts, facial expressions, and, only as a last resort, a shouted word or two.

John nodded and refilled the gourd with warm water. They passed it back and forth, drinking from a single silver straw until Sherlock said, “Gracias.” John cleaned up, and Sherlock extinguished the campfire.

It was obvious to John that Sherlock was, like herself, a city-dweller, but equally obvious that she was an accomplished horsewoman and preternaturally adept at any task that their work required. For example, Sherlock so improved upon John’s rudimentary campfire that fire-assembling and tending duties were quickly reassigned by mutual and mute understanding.

Sherlock didn’t complain or prattle, which John appreciated. She didn’t speak at all. At times, John felt an odd twinge of envy at the remote look on the woman’s face.

It was a beautiful face, John thought, handsome, perhaps a more accurate descriptor. Sherlock and her mount favoured each other, with dark lustrous manes, long lean frames, mercurial eyes, and even more mercurial temperaments. The horse was, no doubt, of impeccable pedigree, but John did not envy Sherlock that. She would not trade her dark bay Browning for any other horse in the world—regardless of lineage.

By unspoken agreement, Sherlock took the first watch of the night and whistled for John when it was her turn. John’s slumber was fitful and light. Shadowy nightmares and even darker memories kept her somewhere between hypervigilance and terror. When she heard Sherlock’s call, she groaned out of relief, not reluctance. When John returned to camp in the morning, sometimes Sherlock was as awake as when she had left, reading by the light of a small torch or just staring at the sky, hands folded in contemplation. John wondered if the woman slept at all.

 

 

Two nights later, as John prepared the _mate_ , Sherlock spoke.

“People don’t like me. I don’t like people.”

John drank the infusion. She secretly preferred English tea, but the _mate_ was warm and kept her alert. The first night of their partnership, John had prepared the _mate_ with utmost care. She didn’t know if Sherlock would even engage in the ritual; she seemed so, well, _different_. But Sherlock had taken the gourd when offered and drank it, and John had released her held breath and leant back to watch the fire as the familiar ceremony ensued.

Every night since had proceeded as the first. John refilled the gourd with warm water and handed it to Sherlock.

“All those things that you knew about me the day Stamford introduced us. Someone of your intellect could be making proper money in the capital, not the pittance we’re getting out here.”

Sherlock replied, “I could say the same of you. Soldier. Doctor.”

John watched the fire. They passed the gourd in silence.

 

 

When John spoke, it was as if seconds, and not days, had elapsed since Sherlock’s comment.

“Was, was. Was a soldier. Injured. Discharged. Was a doctor. Negligent.” The word was pronounced with a hard _t_ and a wince. “Struck off.” John took the gourd from Sherlock and refilled it with water. “I don’t like people anymore than you do.”

“Nevertheless,” said Sherlock, reaching and gently lifting a pale yellow strand of braided ribbon attached to John’s sack.

“I’m told the colour is called canary song. She wants to be a spring bride.”

“Don’t we all?” Sherlock settled back in her spot and frowned at the fire.

 

 

The following night, John watched the fire crackle and hiss. “I could watch this every night for the rest of my life. Never look at crap telly again,” she mused.

Sherlock asked, “Your injury?”

“The only thing more ridiculous than trying to re-capture tiny dots of land that have more sheep than people from an imperial power would be...”

“A land war in Asia?” supplied Sherlock as she returned the _mate_.

“Precisely. While I recovered, I studied medicine. I was doing well when...” John shook her head slowly. She refilled the gourd with water, drank, and passed it to Sherlock. “I am a soldier without an army. I am a doctor without a license. I am...”

Sherlock cupped the gourd in two hands. “Nothing. You’re nothing, John.”

“Precisely.” John threw a glance at her sack. “Pledged to serve my country. Failed. Took an oath to do no harm. Same result. Made _her_ a promise... _I cannot fail her_.” John closed her eyes and bowed her head as in prayer or defeat. “She’s ‘the best thing that ever happened to me.’”

“Reminds you of that often, does she?”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

The night’s conversation ended.

 

 

“I was a university professor. Chemistry. There was...a spot of trouble. Several, actually.”

“You were asked to leave?” said John, spooning _mate_ into the gourd. She shook and tapped it, settling the dried leaves to her satisfaction.

Sherlock nodded. John felt Sherlock’s heavy gaze on her. The woman’s next words came slow and thick.

“I...am...an... _addict_.”

John stopped.

“And addicts,” continued Sherlock, “are...”

John locked eyes with her.

“Liars. You’re a liar, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s visage grew stormy, and she spat the final word of the night.

“Precisely.”

 

 

The next night John was alone. When she had returned to camp earlier that morning, Sherlock was already saddled. She pointed to horizon and left at a trot.

John tended the flock herself, her only accommodation to don her holster and service pistol when she set out. She did not drink _mate_ , and without the daily stimulant, the next morning found her nodding off.

John startled in the saddle; Browning danced nervously.

_Fox!_

Foxes—and the very occasional puma—were the only true threats to the sheep. John reached for her pistol and pointed it at the fox. Her finger caressed the trigger.

“John!” cried the fox.

John stared. “Talking fox?”

“Dream. Just a dream, John. It’s Sherlock.”

John blinked and shook her head. She saw Sherlock, on foot, with hands raised. Her dark mount, Logic, was idling some paces away. John cursed herself for not even noticing their approach.

“John. The gun,” said Sherlock. John lowered her weapon.

 

 

They resumed their roles and routines, but that night, so ached with fatigue, John took the first three turns of _mate_ before offering it to Sherlock. Sherlock spoke in a low tone that might have been seductive were it not so pained.

“I had a student. Exceptional, but” Sherlock cocked her head, “...unstable...and...obsessed. With me. There were a string of deaths. Suicides, apparently. But I knew differently. _I knew._ Murders. Meant to look like suicides. Meant to...impress me? Challenge me? I investigated. Then, I spoke to the police, but knowledge of my...habits...came to light. No one would believe me. Not the police, not the university officials. Not even my own sister. I tried to make them _see_. But no one would see the connections. _I_ was a lunatic...paranoid...delusional... _I_ was an addict, therefore, I was...”

“A liar. Why didn’t I read about this in the papers? A university serial killer?”

“All swept under the rug. I was forced to resign my post and avoided prosecution myself by agreeing to a treatment centre. I fled shortly after entering, but my sister found me. She gave me several _options_ , this being the least unpleasant.” John raised her eyebrows; Sherlock sipped.

“Christ, Sherlock. What a nightmare! Wait, are you in danger?” John looked irrationally into the surrounding darkness and instinctively touched the pistol at her side.

“I don’t think so.” Sherlock returned the gourd.

“Are you still using?” The question was asked in John’s matter-of-fact, doctor-with-a-clipboard tone. She carefully poured warm water back into the gourd.

“As long as I had my work, my research, my experiments, everything was good, and I very rarely used, but without the Work...”

“What...?”

“Cocaine. Liquid morphine.”

“Christ! Where’d you get the morphine?”

“The capital is full of unethical physicians, John.”

“Yes, yes it is. _Jesus._ And yesterday?” John drank. Sherlock nodded.

John caught Sherlock’s eyes. She thought about smiling, but didn’t. “You aren’t a liar, Sherlock,” she said quietly.

“No. And you, John, you are far from nothing.”

 

 

“How many times have you tasted the end of your own service pistol?”

They were lying on their backs on either side of the campfire, looking up at the night sky. Sherlock had finished the last sips of _mate_ , but she still balanced the gourd on her stomach and had not yet offered the requisite ‘gracias,’ so the ritual had technically not concluded.

“More times than I can count.”

“I could add enough morphine to this little cup to ease both our suffering. Temporarily. Or longer if we so desired.”

“True,” said John dryly, “But someone might steal our horses.”

Sherlock bolted upright with a look of comical horror; John barked an almost-laugh.

“Gracias!” said Sherlock. John caught the tossed gourd.

 

 

John watched Sherlock drink. She stopped and looked at John in inquiry. Suddenly, the muscles of John’s face and abdomen felt unusually tight, and she started to make a hiccupping noise.

Then, she burst into laughter.

It had been so long since John had smiled, let alone laughed, that she was unfamiliar with her own bodily reactions. She was unsure if her face was projecting mirth or horror.

Sherlock looked taken aback.

“Today. You...you...you trying to train that sheep!” cried John. She toppled over, holding her stomach.

Sherlock’s face relaxed into something soft. She stilled, and John had the fleeting thought that perhaps she, too, had forgotten how to smile.

Then, there it was: a faint twitch of the lips.

“That one is the most astute of the flock, John. I was experimenting to see if...”

“It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.” John wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Sherlock opened her mouth. John got to her feet. “Hold that startling revelation about sheep intelligence, love. Gotta empty my bladder. Be right back.” She squeezed the top of Sherlock’s shoulder as she passed.

In two steps, John froze, realizing the intimacy of what had just transpired. When she resumed her position by the campfire, she was still silently cursing herself.

“Gracias,” said Sherlock softly, avoiding John’s gaze, and laying the gourd beside her.

 

 

John emptied the gourd of sodden leaves and rinsed it with water. She had spent most of the evening frowning at the flames and flogging herself mentally. Neither woman had spoken. Sherlock did not approach the fire. Instead, she took out a small shiny object from her sack.

Harmonica.

She raised an eyebrow at John. The faint smile had returned, and John quashed the flutter that resulted inside her. She nodded.

It was a pretty, jaunty tune. At the end, John smiled and clapped. Sherlock stood up and gave a theatrical bow.

 

 

The _mate_ portion of the evenings was shortened to allow for music. Neither spoke, but John didn’t mind. She loved the melodies that poured from the instrument. One night, Sherlock even played a song from John’s childhood, and she sang along loudly, off-key and pitch-horrible. When Sherlock sounded the last bars, John giggled and whooped and clapped.

Sherlock’s eyes were shining.

 

 

The following night, Sherlock unfolded a piece of paper and took out a stub of a pencil. She played and scratched, played and scratched. Every so often, she would start over from the beginning.

John lay down by the fire and closed her eyes. This song was different. It was soft and tender. Like a kiss. Like a long, warm kiss. John felt her skin flush. She cast an alarmed look at Sherlock, but the woman was hunched over her paper, absorbed in her scribbling. John fled to her bedroll without a word.

 

 

The next night Sherlock held up the harmonica. John nodded hesitatingly and then assuming her usual listening position.

Sherlock must have finished the song in her head during the day because it flowed from her lips and instrument in one continuous stream.

It was beautiful. Lush and rich. John rolled so her back was to Sherlock and the campfire. She heard rustling and then the song grew fainter and louder as Sherlock strolled. The notes seeped into her, caressing her, touching her, teasing her. She was never more thankful for the heavy wool ponchos they wore to protect against the external elements because tonight, the element was internal and it was Sherlock’s song, setting John aflame. Under the poncho, John’s fingers sought skin, but there were layers of unrelenting fabrics meant to keep out the cold and wind. John huffed in frustration and finally rolled onto her cupped hand. She thought of long fingers and dark hair and all the never-seen parts of Sherlock deliciously embellished by her lust-driven mind. She heard of a husky voice saying her name and felt strong legs squeezing her tightly. Riding her and being ridden. The song reached a crescendo, and John found her release. In silence.

When the music stopped, John flopped onto her back. Her mind was muddled, and her body thrummed. Sherlock must have seen the blood trickling down her chin from the lip torn by teeth marks. John herself would not note it until tomorrow when a casual swipe of itchy skin would return dried red-brown flakes.

John looked up. Sherlock was studying her with an intensity that bordered on feral hunger. Frightened, John pushed up on her arms and twisted and gasped.

The yellow-braided ribbon dangled accusingly from her sack. John collapsed with her hands covering her head, her nose in the soil. She gave a sorrowful wail.

“ _Jesus fucking Christ!_ ”

“John...”

“Don’t!” she growled, rising to her feet and fleeing the campfire. She readied Browning and led her towards the flock, remaining with them the entire night.

 

 

The next day, Sherlock was holding a ewe while John examined it for injuries. They both stood up and looked at the horizon. Two small dots appeared and grew larger.

“Oh my God!” breathed John.

“Stamford,” said Sherlock.

“And Mary.”

John ran to Browning and mounted her, flying back to camp, with Sherlock in pursuit.

 

 

“John!” They were off their horses; John trapped in Sherlock’s arms.

“Let me go!” John stared at her sack. She broke free briefly, but was caught again.

“Don’t do it now,” hissed Sherlock.

“Let. Me. Go.” Sherlock held her fast. “I failed her, Sherlock! The one fucking thing on this earth I was not supposed to do. My last chance.” John struggled against Sherlock. “Let me go, you bastard!”

“Nothing happened.”

“Maybe not to you! Let me go!” Sherlock flushed but did not loosen her grip.

“Don’t kill yourself right now...because I will kill you in the morning.”

John stopped and stared.

“She’ll stay the night. When we switch watch, I’ll take you out, give you the morphine, and shoot you. I promise. I’m many things, John. But not a liar.”

“She’ll be traumatized.”

“Like she’s not going to be now?! Stamford will take care of her.”

John tilted her head.

“I’ll take care of Browning. Promise. Good care. My family owns an _estancia_. I’ll take care of her myself.”

“Okay,” said John. She held out her hand, and Sherlock shook it.

“Now give me your pistol,” said Sherlock.

John shook her head and walked to her sack. She set her gun in its holster on her hip.

“Hell no. You might shoot yourself.”

Sherlock huffed. “Well, then, punch me in the face.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Punch. Me. In the face. Do you really want to tell her what we’ve been arguing about? They’re almost here. You can say I disparaged the honour of your betrothed.”

John didn’t move.

“Your Mary’s a whore.”

_WHAM!_

Sherlock rolled on the ground and mumbled something that sounded like, “Thank you for avoiding my nose and teeth.”

 

 

“Hello, ladies! How are you doing?” cried Stamford. “I brought a little surprise for you, John.”

“Wonderful, wonderful.”

“Hello, John.”

“Hello, love.” John kissed her cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you. This is Sherlock Holmes, my...”

“Friend,” supplied Sherlock.

“Colleague,” coughed John. “Such a workplace as it is.” She gave a gesture to indicate the flat landscape. “Sherlock, this is my fiancée, Mary Morstan.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Mary.

“Likewise.”

“Sherlock.”

“Stamford.”

Stamford walked to her horse and began unloading bags. “I’ve brought provisions and supplies for the next month. Know you’ll be needing this.” She held up a large clear bag of dried leaves. “Well, show your little lady around the office, John, and we’ll partake.”

Soon, they were seated around the cold campfire with Stamford serving as _cebador_.

“How ‘bout a song?” asked Sherlock, pulling out her harmonica.

“Splendid!” said Stamford. Sherlock launched into a loud, booming melody.

Mary said quietly, “I need to steal John for just a minute.” She led John away by the hand.

 

 

When the pair returned, Sherlock finished the song with a flourish.

“Well done, well done!” cried Stamford, clapping. She looked at Mary.

“Ready,” said Mary.

“Very well,” said Stamford. “Ladies, I am afraid this is a very quick visit. Just wanted to restock you, and make sure everything is going well.”

“Please take care of yourself, John.” Mary kissed John’s cheek.

“You, too.”

“We’ll see you back at the end of the month,” said Stamford.

Good-byes were exchanged, and the visitors soon disappeared.

 

 

Sherlock and John returned to the herd and resumed their day. Dusk found them back at the campfire.

John prepared the mate as carefully as she had the first day. When she handed it to Sherlock, she said,

“You knew. You evil, evil, woman. You knew.” Smiling was much easier now.

Sherlock sipped. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though.” She smirked.

“You knew she was going to throw me over for someone else, someone she met at a _café_. Here." Sherlock caught what John threw at her. "You want to be a spring bride, be my guest. I’m not actually the marrying kind.” Sherlock pocketed the ring.

“You were so absorbed in your own guilt, you were blind to hers.”

John shook her head and swallowed. Then, she said something she had never told anyone.

“I know, logically, intellectually, that what I’m thinking, the way I’m thinking, is wrong, that my frame is skewed. But I’m inside the picture. And I can’t right it. I can’t straighten it. And the impulse is so strong. To destroy myself. I feel powerless to refuse it, and it’s seems like it’s always been that way, before I lost my license, before the army, most of my damned life. One day, I’m not going to come out of the darkness, Sherlock. My demons, they beckon me. All the fucking time.”

“I’m not afraid of darkness, John,” said Sherlock quietly. “I’m not afraid to match wits with any demon that plagues you.”

“You’re extraordinary, Sherlock. Truly extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Freak.”

“People are idiots, Sherlock. The whole fucking lot of them.”

"Yes, yes, they are."

They drank in silence for a while.

“Are you still going to kill me?”

“Would you settle for _une petite mort_?”

John’s eyes widened. Sherlock smiled.

“Are you _flirting_ with me, Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Are you going to flirt back?”

“I dunno.” John ruffled her short hair. “I just got dumped by my fiancée. I guess there should be a mourning period or something...”

“That was hours ago, John.” Sherlock smirked. “Why would you still be upset?”

John laughed.

 

 

Sherlock watched over the flock in the darkness. The neck of her black poncho was slit and John was nestled underneath it, facing her, clinging to her, her head resting in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. John had balked at first, arguing that Sherlock’s mount would be spooked by the extra weight, but Sherlock reassured her.

“Logic’s a very perceptive animal. Come.”

Sherlock held the reins in one hand and slid another around John’s waist. She tugged John’s shirt from her jeans and sighed when fingers touched skin. John unbuttoned her shirt and pressed bare chest and stomach to Sherlock. John took the reins that Sherlock offered. Sherlock unbuttoned her own shirt and then John felt her taking the reins from John’s hand and thrusting something heavy with a wooden handle in their place.

“Cut it open.” John slit Sherlock’s thick undershirt from neck to hem, and then gave the knife back.

When skin touched skin, both women cried out. John melted into Sherlock. Sherlock held her close, gently but firmly, and motioned for Logic to circle the sleeping flock.

 

 

John blinked. Dawn was breaking, and she was still wrapped around Sherlock atop the horse. She felt...odd.

Rested. Well rested.

“I haven’t felt like this in decades.” John’s breath was visible in the morning air.

“I’ve never felt like this,” countered Sherlock with a husky whisper. “Your trust, John. It is...intoxicating. And warrants a small...confession on my part.”

John’s body tensed. Here we go, she thought.

“I hate _mate_.”

John laughed so loud even Logic startled. Sherlock made a soft noise that soothed the animal and John. 

John snuggled against Sherlock. “Let’s go back to camp. I’ll make you a proper cup of tea.” 

Sherlock looked down at John and smiled. “English fathers,” she said, brushing hair from John’s face.

“Proper bastards, but, God bless ‘em.”

Sherlock gave an amused snort and turned Logic toward the camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have wanted to do a fic about _mate_ since I started this series. It is such an interesting drink. My memories of Argentina are quite dusty and are only of the edges (the northern Bolivian border, near La Quiaca, Buenos Aires, the southern Patagonia, and Mendoza, center of Argentine wine production near the Chilean border). I do remember this woman on horseback, flat grasslands stretching for miles, outside of La Quiaca. She looked _tough_. Like she could eat your pasty dumpling of a _gringa_ author for breakfast. 
> 
> Chapter 2 will be Sweet (aka outdoorsy porn).


	2. Sweet (Part 1)

A shy silence fell over the campsite as the women drank their tea.

John watched the horses. Then, she frowned.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Logic is...smitten...with your Browning.”

“And she...”

“...is not giving him the time of day. Quite disconcerting for the ol’ boy.”

“Hmm. Well, he should go back to dreaming about his harem of thoroughbred fillies back home and leave my ol’ mare alone.

“John.”

“What? You and I and they both know she’s nowhere near his league.”

“You’re a snob.”

“I am a realist!”

Sherlock looked at her.

John shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.” She stood up and walked over to Browning. The horse leaned into her cooing. “Who am I to begrudge you a little bit of fun, love? Especially when I bring you out to the back of beyond. Just don’t forget to leave with one that brought you.” She nuzzled the horse’s neck affectionately. “And you, Mister.” John turned with an accusing finger pointed at the tall dark horse. “Had better be worth your biscuits.” Logic snorted; so did Sherlock.

John walked back to Sherlock. “Alright, breakfast is over. Let’s see what Stamford brought us.” John cut open the tightly bound parcels and sorted through the foodstuffs.

“Sherlock!”

“Hmm?”

John held up a large plastic bladder with a small hose attached. One side was black, one side was clear. She giggled.

Sherlock rose with a smile. “Shower!”

“Hallelujah!” cried John. “Hot water! I can stop smelling like rotten produce!”

Sherlock took the shower and held it up. “I know exactly where we can position this to get maximum sunlight. It’ll be warm in no time.”

“I want it hot, Sherlock. Boil the grim off me!”

“Me, too,” said Sherlock, grinning.

John rifled through the provisions.

“Oh...my!”

She pulled out a bundle of fabric, cream coloured with vertical stripes of tiny pink roses.

She held it up by the string.

“A curtain,” said Sherlock. “A not-very-opaque curtain.”

John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes.

“Bwah! It’s quite...”

“Pornographic? Yes.”

“Do you think that Stamford...?” asked John.

“Yes. I severely underestimated her. We need to assemble our shower forthwith.”

“We can use the rocks...”

“Yes. Driftwood platform to stand on. Let's go.”

 

 

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock! It’s good! So fucking good!”

The hot water scorched John’s skin, but she didn’t care. She scrubbed herself, careful not to waste a drop. Through the curtain, she could see Sherlock seated on a rock some distance away beside a bundle of clothes and toiletries.

“I am going to calculate the exact ratio of water for you versus me based on surface area.”

“Is that a fat joke? Because I am pretty sure, even with your increase stature, I’ve got you beat on surface area.” John rinsed her belly and hips.

“No. A poorly-conceived attempt at flirtation. I was going to ask you to let me measure you.”

John blushed and laughed. She stopped the water. “I’ve got scars, Sherlock,” she said quietly.

“From your injuries?”

“Yeah. Left shoulder took the brunt of it, but really scattered across my chest and back.”

“And you’re under the misguided notion that somehow that makes you _less_ attractive to me.”

“They make people uncomfortable.” John dried herself with a towel.

“’People’? You mean ‘Mary,’” Sherlock sneered. “Ridiculous. Made you wear a shirt, did she?”

“The first time, she got so upset, I... _Christ, I shouldn’t tell you this_...told her that I wasn’t interested in _reciprocation_. Made things easier. For both of us.” The jeans stuck on John’s damp legs; she tugged harder.

Sherlock stood.

“You were together...?”

“Better part of three years.” John drew a thin, long-sleeved shirt over her head.

“And she never once tried to _melt_ you?”

“Not on, Sherlock. It’s called respecting a boundary.”

“It’s called being an idiot!”

John stepped gingerly from behind the curtain and sat on a rock to don her socks and shoes.

“I just don’t know if I can...,” began John.

“Your demons like deals. Let’s make one. Come.” Sherlock strode to the campsite. John hastily slipped on her shoes and followed.

Sherlock rummaged in her sack and pulled out a small bag of white powder and dark brown bottle with an eyedropper top. She made walled chamber of rocks beside the cold campfire and set the two items inside it.

“You show me your scars, and I’ll drop my stash in the fire. This is all of it. You can check. Please, I insist.”

“I trust you, Sherlock.” John put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes, you do,” whispered Sherlock. “Amazingly.”

John covered the little display with a flat rock. “When I’m ready,” she said.

“Fair enough, but know this, John Watson, if you were mine, really and truly mine, I would take you back to the capital, lay you down in fine linen, and take you apart. For. Days.” John shivered; Sherlock stomped off toward the shower.

 

 

“What are you wearing?” cried John. Sherlock emerged from behind the curtain swathed in dark blue silk.

“Dressing gown.”

“In the middle of the pampas! You look like a blue Lawrence of Arabia!”

“I was afraid to leave it behind. My sister might sell it. Or worse—wear it.” Sherlock scowled and then unsuccessfully hid a yawn.

“Sherlock, when’s the last time you slept?”

“Transport.”

“It’s been days, hasn’t it? Let’s see if your demons like deals as much as mine. You sleep for two hours...”

“Two hours and fifteen minutes. REM cycles.”

“Okay, two hours and fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there when you wake up. With. You.”

“How?” Sherlock’s eyes danced.

“However you are,” purred John with a wiggle of her eyebrow.

“Deal,” said Sherlock. They shook hands. “Tonight. By the campfire.”

“Deal.”

 

 

The fire was roaring. Sherlock slowly undid her trousers and pushed them down and off her bare feet. John whistled at her bare legs.

“Goodnight, John,” said Sherlock as she snuggled into her sleeping bag.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Some two hours later, John’s bare legs were brushing Sherlock’s. John felt a hand wrap around her waist and wet lips at her neck.

“Ten more minutes, Sherlock.”

“I’m dreaming, John.” John turned in Sherlock’s arms and raised one leg over Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock ran her hand down John’s back, buttock, and thigh and pulled her closer. She repeated the motion, stopping to push her hand under John’s shirt and rub circles on her back. Then, she slipped her hand into John’s knickers and gripped her arse.

“Mmm. Yeah.” John nosed at Sherlock’s neck.

“Kiss me, John.”

John covered Sherlock’s mouth with her own and devoured her. She peppered chaste kisses over Sherlock’s lips and eyes and cheeks and neck. She slotted their mouths for deep, wet kisses with plundering tongues and urgent moans. John nibbled Sherlock’s plump bottom lip and her sweet cupid’s bow and her jaw and earlobes. She teased Sherlock with almost-kisses, making her chase John’s mouth, giggling. She pushed Sherlock on her back and rolled atop her.

Sherlock wrenched John’s knickers down to the tops her thighs. She grasped John’s buttocks tightly and ground John’s cunt into her own.

“Just a bit of fun,” panted Sherlock, looking up at John with wild eyes.

“That’s all it can be, love. I’m out of the promise-making business. Like doctoring and soldiering. Christ, Christ, do that again.” Sherlock guided John’s hips in a figure eight with a hard thrust up when their cunts met in the centre. “Fuck!” John rut against Sherlock frantically, then slowed. “Show me! Show me! Please, gorgeous, quick,” she pleaded. “I want to make you feel this good, so good.” Sherlock drew John’s hand between her legs. John had barely traced the edge of Sherlock’s clit when Sherlock keened.

“John! John!”

John held Sherlock tight. “I’ve got you, princess,” she whispered and slammed into her.

“Sherlock!”

 

 

Both watched the fire: John, curled atop Sherlock, and Sherlock, petting John’s hair. Sherlock made to get up.

“Whistle for me,” said John. Sherlock kissed her lips. John burrowed into the warm spot.

 

 

It was warm, very warm. Bright morning sun beat down on John when she opened her eyes.

“Sherlock! I said ‘Whistle.’”

“You were sleeping. Make tea.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

“Do it again.”

“Are you watching me?” asked John, blushing. She soaped her torso while the warm water trickled down her body.

Sherlock grunted. “I believe I’m doing what Stamford intended. Close your eyes.”

John closed her eyes and thought, What the hell, just a bit of fun.

She caressed her belly and hips. She drew her hands up her breasts and cupped and squeezed them. She bent forward and ran her hands over her arse, turning and wiggling it in Sherlock’s direction. She covered her mons with two hands and pretended to tease herself, all while the water streamed over her curves.

She quickly turned off the hose. “Sorry. I took more than my surface area.” A towel appeared, attached to a trembling hand.

“Days, John” said a husky voice. "Days."

 

 

The campfire lit Sherlock beautifully. Long-sleeved shirt opened to reveal a sliver of bare skin, knickers twisted on the ground. John pursed her lips in an air kiss to Sherlock’s cunt and then, Sherlock turned to show her bare arse.

“Christ,” groaned John. “Go to sleep, you minx.”

“Goodnight, John,” sing-songed Sherlock.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

 

The instant Sherlock stirred, John’s mouth was on her neck. Sherlock moaned. John pulled apart her shirt so that their chests touched. The skin-on-skin contact made John hunger for Sherlock. She rubbed against her clumsily.

“Sherlock, Sherlock...?”

“Of course, anything, you idiot.” John bit hard on Sherlock’s neck, and she yelped.

“Mind your manners. Want to taste you.” John trailed licks down Sherlock’s body. She felt the cool night air on her back when Sherlock pulled back the sleeping bag. John’s tongue was below Sherlock’s navel, her arms hugging Sherlock’s hips, when she felt Sherlock stretch and move away.

“Where are you going, sweetness?” John nipped the flesh of Sherlock’s buttock as she turned.

_WHA! WHA!_

John startled and looked up. She laughed until tears came to her eyes. She dried her face against Sherlock’s thighs and sank her teeth into the skin there.

“You’re going to play the harmonica while I eat you out?!”

“Yes,” said Sherlock with a grin. “I thought you might appreciate some musical accompaniment.”

“Sure...umm...okay...Christ...okay, just give me a head start.” John licked up and down the inside of Sherlock’s thighs slowly, letting the silliness die inside her. She had traced Sherlock’s cunt with the tip of her tongue and planted a soft wet kiss in the centre when the music began.

And it was _that_ song, the one that made John _want_. And she had no trouble following the rhythm of Sherlock’s melody, speeding up and slowing down, licking and probing and tasting and teasing until Sherlock dropped the harmonica and rolled them. John’s jaw ached, but she didn’t want to be anywhere else, but buried underneath Sherlock, while Sherlock groaned her name and rut into John’s mouth. Sherlock rolled them back. Sherlock was gorgeous, sweaty and dishevelled and panting and _spent_.

“John.”

“I’m here, love.”

John rose up beside her. Sherlock held John’s head in her hands and kissed her.

“You drive me mad, much worse than the cocaine or the morphine.”

“Then, get rid of them.” John leaned over and threw off the heavy rock. She tossed the bottle and the bag in the fire. “And take me.” She covered Sherlock’s face with her arms as glass shards spit around them.

Sherlock tore off John’s shirt and read her scars with her fingers like a blind woman. Then, she turned John’s left shoulder toward the firelight. Lips and tongue followed fingers, tracing and mapping.

“Had enough?” asked John when Sherlock nuzzled at her neck.

“Hardly. I’ve got three weeks.” She kissed John’s shoulder.


	3. Sweet (Part 2)

“I can’t wait, John.”

“What? I am almost done, Sherlock.”

John twisted the shower hose closed. With her dressing gown hanging open, Sherlock twined her arms under John’s, pushed John’s back against the rock wall, and lifted her off the ground.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.”

“Couldn’t wait until tonight, eh?” John said. Sherlock grunted and rocked their hips together in a rhythm that kindled a sweetness in John.

“OH! Sherlock! Right there, right there.” Sherlock repeated the movement with increased speed.

“Oh, oh, oh, _Christ_ , Sherlock. _Sherlock_.” John cried out and dropped her forehead against Sherlock’s neck. Then, she looked up. They breathed into each other’s mouths and then kissed.

Sherlock stopped the grinding. “No, no, love, don’t stop. Just slowly, slowly. There might be...yeah, like that. There might a second...Oh, Jesus Christ! _Sherlock!_ ” John bit down on Sherlock’s neck.

“How many can you have?” asked Sherlock.

“Most of the time, I have trouble with one, so two’s a bloody miracle.” She pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Don’t get smug.”

“Too late.” Sherlock preened.

“Fucking in the middle of the afternoon. Nice. An entirely welcome and pleasant change. For me.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t have any point of reference. At all.”

John’s smile fell, and her brow furrowed.

“Sherlock?” She scanned Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock! Put me down.”

Sherlock released John’s legs, and she slide to the ground.

“Why didn’t you tell me?! _Christ!_ ”

“Would it have mattered?”

“Yes!”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to fuck someone with no experience?!”

“ _I_ would have acted differently, been more considerate...”

“I don’t need to be _coddled_...”

“It’s not _coddling_ to show someone a little extra concern, thoughtfulness.... Okay. Why?”

“I never wanted to, until now, and I never had to, for the drugs.”

Sherlock jerked against the arms that encircled her, but John held her fast. John nodded and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s chest, feeling the staccato beat of the Sherlock’s heart through her lips.

“John.” Sherlock curled her hands around John’s head. She looked deep into John’s eyes. “You are far from nothing.”

John smiled and released her grip.

“Enjoy your shower.”

 

 

John planned her tender assault all afternoon. When Sherlock woke from her evening sleep, John eased on top of her. She laced their fingers and fixed Sherlock’s hands beside her head.

“You’re not to touch me.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened, and she nodded.

John rubbed Sherlock’s scalp. She licked and nipped her earlobes and neck. She massaged the stiff muscles of Sherlock’s neck, shoulders, back, and arms. She teased and tongued Sherlock’s nipples until they were dusky and pebbled. She fondled Sherlock’s breasts gently and skimmed her lips across the hills of her ribs and the plain of her stomach. She sucked Sherlock’s toes and kissed her ankles. She rubbed her feet and the backs of her knees. She nuzzled her inner thighs and kissed the centre of her. She licked inside Sherlock and outside Sherlock, her clit and her cunt. She brushed her lips across the rim of Sherlock’s arse. She sank her teeth into the flesh of Sherlock’s buttocks and licked the juncture of arse and leg.

Sherlock purred. She groaned. She whimpered. She called John’s name. She pleaded. She sighed. She gasped.

But she didn’t come.

Sherlock arched into the leg that slid between her thighs.

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm?”

“Open your eyes!” The voice was one John had not used in ages, not since pastures had been turned into battlefields.

Sherlock opened her eyes. “John?!”

“ _That_ is what I would’ve done, if I had known. I would’ve taken you apart, from top to bottom, front to back.”

Sherlock mewled.

“Lying by omission is still lying. Don’t lie to me.”

“Yes, yes.” John heard the unspoken ‘sir’ and relaxed.

“Now, fuck yourself on me.” John flipped them so that she was on her back and Sherlock was frantically rutting against her thigh. Sherlock collapsed on John in a heavy boneless tangle of limbs.

They kissed with lazy, lust-soaked mouths and tongues.

“Let me play, love.” John slipped a hand between their bodies and brushed Sherlock’s pubic hair.

“Yes, yes,” breathed Sherlock.

“So wet,” said John. She traced Sherlock’s folds slowly and gently.

“Wet,” echoed Sherlock.

“Soft. Warm. Open.” Sherlock spread her legs wider. “That’s a girl. Open that pretty cunt for me. Beautiful.” John pushed one finger inside; Sherlock inhaled sharply. Then, she curled her hips.

“More?” teased John.

“More!”

John stilled Sherlock’s hips with her other hand. Then, she gave Sherlock’s arse a light spank.

“More what?”

“More, please!” whimpered Sherlock. John thrust two fingers inside Sherlock and pumped them until Sherlock was writhing. Sherlock clamped tightly around John’s hand.

“ _John!_ ”

John thought that Sherlock had drifted off to sleep when she attempted to ease from under her.

“No,” said Sherlock.

“I’ll take tonight’s watch, love.”

“No.”

“Then, you have to come out with me.”

“Okay.”

John dressed herself. Then, she dressed Sherlock.

“Come on, love.”

Logic cast a curious glance at the pair, but did not balk at two riders. Sherlock draped herself along John’s back and tucked her head in her neck, kissing and humming and nuzzling. Every so often, John would curl an arm back and tousle Sherlock’s hair affectionately.

 

 

Sherlock’s torpor evaporated with the morning dew.

“Tea,” she barked.

“Good morning to you, too,” said John.

They drank their tea in silence.

“Let’s take the flock to the far stream,” suggested Sherlock after the cups were washed.

John cocked her head, considering. “Alright. That’ll take all day.”

“We can have a picnic.”

John stared at her. A sly smile bloomed on Sherlock’s lips.

“Sure.”

 

 

“Gorgeous day,” said John, reclining on the blanket, flexing her bare feet.

She was... _happy_. Full, warm, at ease with herself and the world. She smiled.

“There’s dessert,” said Sherlock.

“What?”

Sherlock pulled out a chocolate bar.

“Holy Mary! Where did you get that?!”

Sherlock smirked, but said nothing. “Want some?” she teased.

“Hell yes.”

“You have a sweet tooth,” said Sherlock playfully. She broke off a piece of chocolate and fed it to John, who groaned with pleasure.

“Not your most brilliant deduction,” said John, rubbing a hand across her belly. “Evidence is right here.”

“Shut up. Or you won’t get more.”

John pouted and then made a dramatic gesture of closing her lips. Sherlock fed her another piece. John held Sherlock’s wrist and licked her finger and thumb greedily. Then, she fell onto her back and stared up at the sky.

“Christ, that’s good.”

Sherlock lay beside John, her head on her bent arm. She trailed one hand over the buttons of John’s shirt and the front of her jeans.

“I want to fuck you, John.” Her voice was a low, husky rumble.

“Here?” Sherlock nodded. “Out in the open?”

“There’s no one, but the sheep. And the horses—and they might be following suit.”

John unbuttoned her jeans and opened them. Sherlock smiled when her fingers felt soft pubic hair.

“Nobody’s watching,” said Sherlock; John’s eyes closed as Sherlock teased her. “And if they were, I wouldn’t care.”

“Bit of the exhibitionist, are you?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps, I just want you that badly.” Sherlock covered John’s hip bone with her hand and turned her on her side. She kissed John’s lips. “Tell me, John. Tell me what you like.” John raised her leg over Sherlock’s, and Sherlock thrust a hand into John’s jeans and cupped her buttock.

John hid her face in Sherlock’s neck. “Your fantasy. In fine linen. Days.” Sherlock’s hand travelled north under John’s shirt and rubbed slow circles on her back. “I think about it. All the time.” Sherlock grunted. “I want to be... _used_.” At the last word, John pressed her face to Sherlock’s neck and felt her skin flush.

Sherlock held John close and whispered in her ear. “I’d tie you to the bed, John.”

“Yes!” John unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it off. She wrapped her bare arms around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock caressed her back and shoulders.

“Make you my own personal fucktoy.”

“Oh, _God_ , Sherlock, yes, yes, yes.”

“Fuck myself on every inch of you. Day and night. Until I was sated, satisfied.” John scrambled to remove her jeans and began to wantonly grind her naked hips into Sherlock’s clad ones.

“Make me tongue-fuck your pretty arsehole ‘til my jaw aches. Make me finger your sweet cunt ‘til my hands cramp. Make me yours.”

Sherlock shivered. She sought John’s hungry mouth with her own. Sherlock broke the kiss to run a possessive hand down John’s body. “But I’d take care of my toy, John.”

“I know you would. I trust you, Sherlock.” Sherlock reached over to break off another piece of chocolate, which John gobbled from her fingers.

“Feed you, pet you, give you lots of affection.” John hummed. By now, she was practically bouncing against Sherlock. “My good girl, my good, good girl. It’s your turn to feel good. Go on.” John rut until the sweetness burst inside her. “Oh, _Christ_ , Sherlock.”

John sat up and rolled her hips. She ran her hands up her torso and twisted her hair on top of her head. She caressed herself to the echo of Sherlock’s song inside her head and then looked down at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes.

“Be good to your pet?” she growled.

Sherlock stared at her with wild eyes. “Anything you want, John.” John leaned to retrieve a small flat pillow. She laid herself down prone atop it. “Mount me, Sherlock. Ride me hard.” Sherlock groaned and removed her clothing. She straddled John and painted the cleft of her arse with her damp cunt. She balanced her weigh between her own bent thighs and John’s lower back and rocked them until they were both panting and sweating. Sherlock grabbed John’s hair close to her head and pulled her up.

“You need to grow this out,” said Sherlock.

“So you can braid it for reins,” whined John. “ _Yes_.” Sherlock ran two hands deep into the flesh of John’s back and shoulders, up and down, over and over again. “Mine, mine, mine,” she hissed.

“Sherlock, I’m close.” Their hips undulated together.

“Me, too, pet.”

“Oh, oh, _oh!_ ” cried John.

“Good girl, good girl. _John!_ ”

“Don’t stop, Sherlock.”

“John?” It was a whimper. John pushed up against Sherlock and took advantage of the resulting imbalance to twist under her so that John was on her back and Sherlock straddling her waist.

“Turn around and keep riding me. I want to watch that pretty arse.” Sherlock obliged. John watched with unbridled lust as Sherlock’s arse wiggled and bounced. She reached her arms down to massage Sherlock’s thighs. “That’s right, just like you do on that gorgeous horse of yours.” Sherlock looked over her shoulder and what she saw in John’s eyes made her redouble her efforts.

“There ought to be a law against that,” growled John. “Come up here and ride my tongue.” Sherlock inched closer to John’s head until John was lapping at her cunt eagerly. Sherlock laid her body on John’s. John opened Sherlock’s folds with her fingers and sank a probing tongue inside her. Sherlock hunched her shoulders down and John curled her hips up until Sherlock could press her lips to John.

“Oh!” John stopped. Sherlock turned them on their side.

“Let me take care of my beautiful pet,” whispered Sherlock. “Let me taste you.” John raised her thigh. “That’s right.” John felt Sherlock’s tongue teasing her and John arched into her mouth. “Good girl. Show me you want it.” John bit the inside of Sherlock’s leg.

John gave herself over to Sherlock, sinking, drowning in the sensations of being pleased, adored, worshipped. When Sherlock slowed and then stopped, John sighed with frustration.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Don’t worry, John. Just let me use you.” Sherlock turned around to kiss John on the lips and to rock their wet cunts together until they both shuddered in release. Sherlock draped herself atop John, and they dozed in the afternoon sunlight.

 

 

“Stop it, Sherlock,” mumbled John as she felt something sniffing her ear. “That tickles.” John lifted a heavy hand and pushed. She opened her eyes.

_BAAA!_

Two eyes and a pointy grey nose stared at her.

“SHEEP! FUCK!”

They sat up. The sheep were all around them, nosing their clothes and the remnants of their lunch. They started to bleat in noisy chorus.

“Get away! Get away!” John whipped the woolly beasts with her shirt. Then, she fell back to the blanket, laughing.

“Ha, ha, ha! The bloody sheep are going to kill us!”

“Ugh!” Sherlock groaned and held up the trampled chocolate bar.

“Damn you, sheep!” cried John. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

They put themselves and the flock in order.

“What were you doing, missy?” John yelled at Browning. “You were supposed to be paying attention.”

Browning snorted, and Logic gave a amused whinny.

 

 

 

“Where will you go when this is over?” asked Sherlock later that evening. John leaned back against Sherlock’s chest. They watched the fire.

“Ushuaia, maybe.”

“End of the world. To do what? Watch the tourists board ships for Antarctica?”

“I don’t know. The capital has too many ghosts for me. What about you?”

“When my sister verifies that I’m clean, she’ll release my funds and my mobile phone. I’ve got my eye on a flat in the city centre. The landlady may give me a special deal. She owes me a favour. Some years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“You stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh no. I ensured it.”

John laughed and nestled further back into Sherlock. “Tell me the whole story.”

“Well, it was the single most interesting Holmes family vacation to Miami ever...”

 

 

“That’s fantastic, Sherlock.”

“Yes, it was.”

“So the Americans, the bloody FBI, believed you. Maybe you could do it for a living, you know, consult with the police on crimes.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“All you need is one case, Sherlock, to show them...what you do, how good you are, how much they need you. Or you could take private clients, you know, private investigator. More lucrative, I’d expect.”

“It’s a far cry from scientific research.”

“I don’t know. There’s a lot of chemistry in forensics, no?”

“True. I...might need an assistant.” She pressed her lips to the side of John’s head.

“Darling, you’re brilliant. And gorgeous. And probably posh as all get out when you’re not rustling sheep. They’ll be plenty lining up around the block to apply for that position.”

“Perhaps.”

 

 

The days flew by. As the end of the month approached, however, Sherlock and John slowly retreated to their silent, separate ways until there was no touching and no talking. Sherlock whistled for John, and they switched watches in the night without a word. The last morning, both rose at the first crack of dawn and began to break camp.

“One more mate?” asked John. “For ol’ times’ sake?” Sherlock nodded.

They passed the gourd in silence.

“I’m long overdue getting rid of this,” said John as she cut the braided yellow ribbon from her sack and threw it into the dying embers of the fire. “Maybe she’ll be a spring bride after all. A spring bride with a horrible name: Mary Morstan Moriarty."

Sherlock froze and dropped the gourd.

“What?”

“That’s my student’s name.”

“But he’s a...”

“I never said that, John.”

“A female serial killer?”

“In this case, the female of the species is infinitely deadlier than the male.”

John swallowed. “Could be a coincidence.”

“The universe is rarely that sloppy, John.”

“Is Mary in danger?”

“Imminent? I don’t know. Long-term? Definitely. When she’s no longer useful, Moriarty will dispose of her.”

“Christ.” John stood up and rubbed the back of her head.

“John.”

Sherlock came around behind her. She held the diamond engagement ring over her left ring finger in front of John. “You’re not in the promise-making business, so I’ll make one to you. Wherever you go, John.” She slipped the ring on her finger. “I’m yours.”

“What do you want, Sherlock? To reclaim your old life?”

“I don’t want that life anymore, John. I want a new one. With you in it. In my life, in my flat, in my bed. In my work and in my play. Side-by-side, fighting our demons and the world’s villains together. I was bitter when I came out here, John. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. I want it all now, and I am supremely motivated to get it.”

John took a deep breath. “When I joined the army, when I became a doctor, when I asked Mary, I wrote these lists, pros and cons, and deliberated for weeks. All that careful planning and look where I ended up. This is mad, and can’t possibly work, but maybe it’s time to just say ‘yes’ and see where it takes me.”

“So?”

“So, yes!”

Sherlock squealed. John turned in her arms. They embraced tightly and then kissed.

John frowned. “Sherlock, I’m still not the marrying kind.”

“Neither am I,” she said, holding up her ringed finger. “This is just to annoy my sister.”

John laughed; then she asked, “What about Browning?”

“You can stable her at our _estancia_. Logic will definitely make room for her.” Sherlock wiggled her eyebrows.

“I think she’d like it, too.” John grinned.

 

 

Right before they left, Sherlock pulled a small mobile phone out her pocket.

“I thought you said yours was impounded.”

“Satellite phone. With only one number.” She held the phone to her ear. “Ready,” she said into the receiver. She turned off the phone. “Let’s go.”

 

 

It was almost dusk when they reached Stamford’s _estancia_. They had just dismounted when a loud whirling noise filled the air. They steadied the skittish horses. Some distance, a helicopter landed.

John stared as a woman with long dark hair in a business suit disembarked. “Hello, gorgeous,” she mumbled and whistled.

Sherlock growled. She grabbed John and dipped her, planting a passionate kiss on her mouth.

“Sher...?”

Sherlock righted John and curled a possessive arm around her waist.

“What the fuck, Sherlock?” cried John.

“My sister does love to be dramatic, Dr. Watson,” said the approaching woman.

“Well, thank God you’re above all that,” said John, indicating the helicopter. “And it’s just Watson. My doctoring days are over.”

“Nonsense. The medical board is reviewing your case as we speak, and I think you’ll find that, upon re-evaluation of the circumstances, a very different decision will be reached. Miscarriages of justice happen all the time. Doesn’t mean that they need to stay that way.” She smiled blandly.

John stared at her, then at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. “She can do it.”

John was stunned into silence.

“John, this is my sister, Mycroft Holmes.” The woman extended her hand. John shook it.

“Mycroft, this is John Watson. We’ve been having red hot _sex_ all over the pampas.”

“My sister is given to hyperbole, Dr. Watson...”

John interrupted her. “It’s cheek, not hyperbole.” The hand at John’s waist squeezed her and then moved John’s shoulder.

“Well, umm,” said Mycroft. Then, she stopped and stared at Sherlock’s hand. Mycroft’s creamy skin turned slightly bilious. “There’s a happy announcement pending?” she asked incredulously.

“I’m to be a spring bride!” cried Sherlock proudly.

John could not control the smile that broke across her face. She rubbed her forehead with two fingers and hide her face in her hand.

Mycroft apoplexy died quickly. She cleared her throat. “First things first.” She handed Sherlock a plastic bag. “If you would, Dr. Watson, oversee the specimen collection process.”

“Umm, sure.”

 

 

They were in the toilet.

“Of all the indignities,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Sherlock, this is the key to your future. Pee. In. The. Cup.”

“Here.”

John took the cup of yellow liquid with gloved hands and screwed the top tightly and put it in the sealed plastic bag. They stripped off their gloves and washed and dried their hands.

“But you’re wrong, you know. That isn’t the key to my future. Meeting you was.”

“It was all the _mate_ ,” teased John. She gave Sherlock a quick peck.

“Oh, yes,” quipped Sherlock as she opened the door for John. “We shan’t forget the _mate_. Let's put the gourd on the mantlepiece, beside my skull...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This fic started out as a love triangle fic and then was going to be a suicide fic and then turn out to be outdoor sex romp. I guess it's all those things. I would like to bring these ladies back some day for a Post-Reichenbach tango at the end of the world so if you like them, let me know!
> 
> Suicide prevention is much in the news these days in the US. "Don't do it" is something I've never listened to, but "don't do it _tonight_ " has kept me alive for the better part of twenty years. I think you need to find what works for you, even if it isn't what the posters and pamphlets say.


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